


The Heat of a Common Room

by LuxaLucifer



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Jealousy, M/M, Sultry in September 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxaLucifer/pseuds/LuxaLucifer
Summary: It has been a long day of traveling, and Celebrimbor wants nothing more than the company of his favorite Maia in the warm inn where they're staying. It seems, however, that Annatar would rather spend his time in the lap of a local human.





	The Heat of a Common Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zinneth (Zoya_Zalan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya_Zalan/gifts).



> This was written for Sultry in September, and I hope it is up to par. It is, of course, not safe for work. Thanks for reading it!

Celebrimbor stares at the fire across the room of the inn, its reflection dancing in the glass of his eyes. No one notices; they are too busy finding other ways to occupy their attentions. There are two elves in the corner of the room holding hands under the table, and two dwarves engrossed in a game of stones. There are even a trio of Númenorians discussing trade prospects as they eat their supper. It's a lively inn, one clearly in the middle of a thoroughfare with all the accompanying hustle and bustle, but Celebrimbor isn't thinking about any of them.

The only two people in this room he cares about are directly behind him, holding no one's attentions but his. One is a man, Hafalin, who works in the inn that his sister runs and fancies himself an Elf. The other is Annatar. One is as ugly as the other is beautiful, one clumsy while the other is skilled. And yet Annatar continues to talk to this man, drinking with him, laughing with him. A particularly loud bout of the latter makes him wince, and he stands up, unable to take it anymore.

"I'm going to bed," he says softly, sure that no one is going to notice his statement. He begins to maneuver around the common room, preparing to head up to the bedroom that he's sharing with Annatar. The room has only one bed, which the innkeeper had apologized profusely for but had secretly pleases Celebrimbor. Pleased, past tense, what with Annatar all over that human. He looks at the man out of the corner of his eyes as he prepares to leave, taking in his unshaven face, his muddy eyes, his lined face. He doesn't understand the appeal.

As he approaches the staircase to the second level, he senses a movement behind him and turns. The dwarves and men, with the exception of the Númenorians, sense nothing, and the latter do not turn their heads. Celebrimbor pauses. Annatar has stood up in one fluid motion, smiling in a way that says nothing. Hafalin looks up at him in confusion. Celebrimbor doubts that he noticed him stand until Annatar was already on his own two feet.

"To bed? The night is still young."

"The night will come again," says Celebrimbor. "And it has been a long day."

"It seems a waste. The day was not that long." Annatar's voice is so pleasant and smooth, his face so friendly, that Celebrimbor feels the emotions inside him become muddled and confused. How can he talk to him so normally, as though he had been spending the night with him and not some human?

"Perhaps it seems a waste to you, but not to me," he replies, unable to keep the bite out of his speech. "You have decided to keep different company, and I know no one here, so sleep is the best alternative."

"It isn't so difficult to make new friends," says Annatar, closing in on him with a purr in a voice, reminding Celebrimbor of some great cat he would meet on a mountainside. No one is watching them but Hafalin, but now it is purposeful, everyone avoiding the lovers' quarrel that has erupted. Celebrimbor feels his face grow hot. He is not always grateful for his complexion, which is prone to showing embarrassment in a manner quite reminiscent of one of his uncles. It means that blushing brings back old memories, and that only sours his mood further. He gets almost angry when it occurs to him how this will spread; two Elf-lords, one something more than that, arguing in the common room of a tavern.

"There are dwarves here," presses Annatar. "I know how you like to exchange news with them. You count many dwarves among your friends. And men, for all your stubbornness."

"Can we do this in private?" says Celebrimbor, who does not want to talk about how much he likes to spend time with dwarves in front of a group of dwarves he does not know.

"I don't see what your problem is," replies Annatar, still with that smooth tone and calm smile. He is radiant, as he always is, shining with the soft glow he seems to wear whenever he wants to convince Celebrimbor of something. "I am wont to spend time with whom I will."

"That's not what I'm talking about," says Celebrimbor, lifting his chin. "I don't care who you spend time with."

"Then why are you so upset?"

No one is looking at them still, not except Hafalin, who doesn't really matter except for his eyes, two burning pits that seem to see right through him. Celebrimbor pulls himself up, thrusting his chest out a little more than he intends. He knows what Annatar wants him to say, or thinks he does; Annatar believes he won't state the truth in front of stranger, not in some inn in the middle of nowhere. He thinks he'll back down, that he'll attempt to save some semblance of his pride. Pride is in a Fëanorian's very blood, after all.

"I'm jealous," he states flatly. "Is it him you want, or me?"

Annatar's eyebrows lift in surprise in a fluid motion. "After all this time, you still manage to surprise me, Telperinquar."

Celebrimbor's shame turns to anger, red hot in that infamous blood. He clenches his fists at the use of his Quenya name. He turns towards the stairwell more, ready to go but reluctant to truly leave. He can feel Annatar's glittering eyes trained on his back.

"Why are you angry?" says Annatar softly. "Thingol is dead and gone. We can speak freely in whatever tongue we please."

"You speak too freely in any language," he replies, finally forcing himself away and up the staircase. He treads up the stairs with harsh footsteps, so loud that even the men and dwarves might catch sound of them. When he reaches his room, he is no longer glad that he's sharing it with Annatar. He'd been hoping for a night of lovemaking followed by a long, deep sleep, keeping the traveling the next day light and steady. Now he just wants to punch something. Annatar always says he has too much of a temper, he recalls bitterly. It takes several tries for him to light the lamps in the room because his hands are shaking.

He's right, of course. He's always right, even when it makes no sense. It's a trait that works wonders in the forge, one that brings their craft together soaring to new heights. When they are away from the bellows, however, it brings Celebrimbor to his breaking point more often than not. Sometimes he wonders why he does not oust him from Eregion the way Elrond and Gil-galad and Galadriel all want him too. When he thinks of that, he can't help but wonder why they're all so set against Annatar, why they persist in thinking they know best.

Celebrimbor shakes his head, sitting on the bed. His anger is draining from him, replaced by exhaustion all too quickly. Galadriel and the rest aren't fools. Maybe they're right to distrust Annatar. Maybe Celebrimbor should pack his things and ride off into the distance, shutting the gates to this Maia with his secrets and his knowledge and his cunning smile. Maybe—

"I did not mean to make you uncomfortable," says a voice from the door.

Celebrimbor flinches, his head snapping up to meet Annatar's gaze. His eyes have always reminded him of a forge; alternately blazing hot and chillingly cold. The difference is that Celebrimbor knows how to control a forge, how to predict it. He cannot say the same of Annatar.

Annatar shuts the door behind them. Celebrimbor watches those deft fingers lock the door as well before turning his gaze elsewhere.

"You didn't mean to make me uncomfortable?" he repeats evenly. "Why do you feel the need to lie to me?"

"Such cruel words," says Annatar. "I do not belong to you. I have the right to sit with whom I wish, to speak to whom I wish. You should respect that."

Celebrimbor winces. Annatar sits on the bed next to him, close enough that his clothes brush Celebrimbor's own, a variation on the Númenorians' riding wear. He finds it more hardy than elves, although he's had to adapt it somewhat for comfort. The leather is at contrast with Annatar's own soft, draping robes, made of some of the best cloth that Eregion has in store. He would be wearing the best but for the traveling they've been doing.

"You're right," says Celebrimbor. "But I know you do these things to rile me. Bringing up Thingol? Bringing up my Quenya name? These are not idle subjects of conversation. You cannot deny this."

Annatar shifts on the bed next to him. Celebrimbor doesn't react, but he feels Annatar's slender thumb brushing against his neck, past the layers of black hair that Celebrimbor wears down. Celebrimbor marvels at how smooth Annatar's hands are, especially considering that his own are a mess of callouses and scars. They work with the same materials, with the same forge, after all. Maybe those smooth hands are just a mark of how much better at their craft Annatar is.

"You're right," says Annatar eventually. "I apologize for bringing up those subjects, although I think you should be less sensitive about them. You should own your past, not shrink from it."

"I don't shrink from it."

"Oh, we both know that's not true."

"It's not your place to judge," says Celebrimbor. "It's not your past."

Annatar laughs softly. "I judge where I will, no matter whose past it is."

Annatar leans in for a kiss, which Celebrimbor grants readily. Annatar's blond hair mingles with his own, the sun and the night mixing, as Celebrimbor raises his hands to grip Annatar's shoulders. The kiss is long and heady, their lips swollen from biting and sucking by the time Annatar draws away. Celebrimbor is left wanting more, his breath coming in short gasps as Annatar grips him gently by the back of the neck. His eyes glint as he watches Celebrimbor.

"Why does everything have to be so difficult with you?" he gasps.

Annatar laughs again. "Is it worth forging the piece if you could do it with your eyes closed? Challenge makes the prize worth catching."

Celebrimbor shakes his head softly. "We are not talking of forging. We are talking of each other."

"We are smiths. There is seldom any difference."

"I disagree," says Celebrimbor. "You cannot shape people like they are iron on a hot forge."

"You can if you really want to," says Annatar, his voice so low in his throat that his words come out like a purr. "You can if you're willing to go to any lengths. I have seen it."

"You claim to have seen many things."

"Enough of this talk," says Annatar. "I tire of dancing around each other with words instead of swords. Let us do something more entertaining."

Celebrimbor frowns. He dislikes the way that Annatar is always changing the subject when it suits him, when he doesn't want to answer something or continue talking. It is a bad habit that he has, one that's beginning to grate on him. Many things about Annatar grate on him. His anger flares back up, and his next words come out before he can stuff them back in. "Don't think I've forgotten about earlier. If you want to do something more entertaining, perhaps you should find Hafalin."

"Maybe I should," replies Annatar, toying with a button on his robes. "Maybe I should invite him in here. You can watch, of course. Perhaps he can have a turn at you after I do. That must be what you want, since you keep bringing him up."

Celebrimbor feels himself turn crimson and hates Annatar for it, if only for a moment. "That is not what I want. Annatar, please don't—please don't do that. I don't want to share, not with him, not with anyone else."

"Simple jealousy on an Elf-lord of your stature. It really does become you."

Celebrimbor's blush does not abate. He tilts his chin upward in a gesture of defiance, although he knows the burning of his cheeks does quite a bit to diminish the effect. Annatar lifts a thumb and runs it along the edge of his neck again. Celebrimbor does not flinch away. "You delight in humiliating me."

"No," says Annatar softly. "No, I do not. I know you think it so, but I do not. I do not want to share you. I do not want Hafalin. I want you, with all that that means." His tone is sincere, with a note of desire unlike the kind burning deep in Celebrimbor's core. Here is the Annatar that Celebrimbor loves, the Annatar that only surfaces when they are alone and their barriers have finally fallen. Celebrimbor feels privileged to know this version of the Maiar.

They kiss again. This time there is less fight in it, less anger, and Celebrimbor leaves it with a warmth in his chest that was not there before. The feeling has become rarer in recent times, rare enough that he reaches for another kiss like a mariner foundering at sea, wanting to hold that glow in him there as long as possible.

When they have kissed so long that Celebrimbor is breathless, fingers grappling for purchase in Annatar's smooth robes, Annatar brings to stroke Celebrimbor's hair. "You are incredible, you know that? There is no one else who would kiss me like that." There is a wistfulness in Annatar's tone that Celebrimbor can't quite place, a sort of need that Celebrimbor doesn't know how to figure out, let alone satisfy. But he will try. He always tries.

Celebrimbor pushes Annatar down on the bed until his blonde hair is splayed out around him like a crown, off-setting the bed-sheets and accentuating the smile playing about the Maia's lips. Celebrimbor takes a moment just to look at the man underneath him, to drink all that beauty and wisdom in. He's been trying to do that since the day they met, but he doesn't think he'll ever manage it.

Celebrimbor leans down to press his lips to Annatar's collarbone, but as he does so, Annatar surprises him, leaping up with skill that Celebrimbor cannot follow to twist them around, a quick type of wrestling that Celebrimbor has no chance of winning. He finds himself on his back with Annatar above him now, and the moment that breath returns to his lungs he finds himself laughing. "And you say that I am the surprising one."

"Is this really so surprising?" says Annatar. He begins to unbutton his robes, swatting Celebrimbor's hands away when he reaches up to help. Celebrimbor watches instead, humming happily as Annatar does away with layer after restrictive layer, finally baring his finely-formed chest, his unblemished skin shadowed by the flickering light of the lamps. He's gorgeous. Celebrimbor has never seen anyone more gorgeous, not in all his long years, and he is a relic of the First Age who knew Lúthien, albeit briefly in the time of her great distress. Thoughts of his father darken his mood, and he refocuses himself on the sights before him, on the way that Annatar's hair moves back and forth as he sways slightly over him. His vision is hazy with emotion, although he cannot rightly identify what it is. He doesn't care.

Annatar begins unbuckling and undoing the straps attached to Celebrimbor's clothing, pulling his Númenorian clothing off piece by piece until he is laying there under Annatar in all his own flesh. Annatar takes it all off until Celebrimbor is lying there naked, while Annatar is clothed from the waist down. Celebrimbor is nearly ashamed to compare their bodies, with his own covered in scars of forge and battle, but he knows that Annatar does not wish to hear him belittle himself in the compliments he pays the Maia.

"You may not think it," says Annatar. "But you are quite the catch. A smith who knows how to fight, and an Elf who knows how to make love. I thought these were at impossibly at odds with each other until you."

Celebrimbor chuckles. "Your words would upset many people I know if they got out."

"It's a good thing that they're not going to get out then, isn't it?" is Annatar's amused reply.

Celebrimbor shakes his head slightly, a soft smile on his lips. He enjoys this banter between them when it is so obviously a game, when Annatar is beginning to drag his hands along Celebrimbor's sides.

Annatar knows the shape and weight of Celebrimbor's body by now, knows where to touch, where he'll get the best results. He exploits this wonderfully, bringing his face close to Celebrimbor's skin and breathing over the most sensitive parts of his upper body even as one of his hands comes around to gently toy with a nipple, giving it just enough attention to make it harden before moving to the next one. His touches always leave just too soon for Celebrimbor's tastes, and he is writhing in Annatar's grasp before long, his vision heady with pleasure. It is a cruelty that they cannot always be engaged in these types of things, although he supposes, he thinks dimly, that they would not be nearly so enjoyable if he could always be doing them.

Celebrimbor realizes belatedly that he is doing nothing to further Annatar's own pleasure, that he's just laying back and selfishly enjoying all the attention being lavished upon him. He brings his coarse hands to Annatar's shoulders, feeling their soft edges. He follows the curve of his shoulders to the smooth expanse of his arm, letting out a hum of approval at what he feels. His own skin feels electrified with every new feeling caused by Annatar's fingers, especially when he begins to move down past Celebrimbor's toned stomach.

Annatar pushes his hands down off his arms with a knowing smile. "That time will come," says Annatar. "For now, just accept it."

Celebrimbor doesn't know what to do but to obey, and so his fingers find purchase in the sheets instead of on Annatar's skin, although he misses the warmth of him. He finds that heat again when Annatar's palms caress his hips, finds it in the touch of lips on his thighs, finds it in his own inner core, where tension is building the closer Annatar gets to his lower regions. The heat makes his whole body tingle, and he reflexively thrusts upward when Annatar brushes his hand against his inner thigh.

"You're quite ready, aren't you?" says Annatar, his voice using that lovely seductive timbre that turns Celebrimbor's bones to ice.

"For you?" says Celebrimbor, his own tone a growl. "Of course I'm ready."

Annatar chuckles lightly, as though pleasantly surprised. He cups Celebrimbor's unclothed penis loosely in his hand. He doesn't move, but it's enough to cause another small involuntary thrust. Celebrimbor lets out a harsh breath. Annatar's laugh deepens.

"Why must you torment me?" says Celebrimbor. His words may be cold, but he keeps his tone as light as he can manage with his heart thrumming like a hummingbird in his chest.

"Is this really a torment? I can imagine much worse. The enemy, for one, would likely imagine torment to be much different."

The heat coiling below his stomach dies down as images flash through his head, real and imagined, of refugees fleeing Morgoth, of the scars of his own family, of the screams of his uncle that haunted his dreams in those early years in Beleriand.

"You're right, of course," says Celebrimbor softly.

Annatar shakes his head. "What am I saying? Forgive me. I did not mean to destroy the atmosphere. Let me take the weight off."

Annatar's hand tightens around his cock, which, until this point, has remained fairly soft. He leans back up to kiss Celebrimbor on the mouth as he begins to move his hand, his other hand steadying himself on the bed. Celebrimbor's own fingers are now pressed tightly into the inn's mattress, tight enough to hurt if he's not careful, and he's got so many things on his mind in that moment that he certainly won't be.

The room is quickly filled with the sound of Celebrimbor's panting. Annatar is silent now, intent on making up for his faux pas, and he has Celebrimbor's length at full hardness in a few short minutes. Soon Celebrimbor has forgotten all about the mention of the enemy and is staring up at Annatar, flat on his back with his legs spread. His chest is heaving and his lips are parted with need, two of the many outward signs of the want and lust that's turning his insides into a battlefield.

"Please," he says. "I want more, Annatar. I want you."

"I know you do," is the reply. "And I will give you what you want. Don't I always?"

"Yes," says Celebrimbor, nearly driven mad with the need that's pulsing through him. "Please."

Annatar lets go of Celebrimbor's cock, wiping the precum that dripped on his hand off on Celebrimbor's outer thigh.

Annatar's hands spread Celebrimbor's legs further apart. He leans forward, and for a brief moment Celebrimbor thinks that he's going to take Celebrimbor's cock in his mouth. A silly thought; Annatar doesn't do that. Celebrimbor doesn't mind much. He enjoys giving much more than receiving anyway.

Celebrimbor watches Annatar reach into his breeches, all he's wearing at this point, and return with a little flask of oil in his hand. He never fumbles for it the way Celebrimbor does; it is little things like this that remind Celebrimbor that he's not an elf, but a Maia. He realizes his own thoughts and almost chuckles; now not being clumsy in sex is otherworldly?

Annatar slicks his fingers with it, his eyes glinting amber as he blows on his hand to warm it. Celebrimbor watches him raptly, unable to take his gaze off him, wanting to touch any part of him he can. He keeps his fingers in the sheets, not noticing that the sweat from his palms is soaking them through.

He might toy too much with the strings of Celebrimbor's heart, but Annatar knows how to take care of him in the bedroom; he rubs one hand along his leg while slowly pressing a finger into him with the other, prepping him with the same ease and skill he always shows.

"You're so good at this," says Celebrimbor, his back arching. The finger inside of him isn't much so far, but what it promises makes the blood pound in his ears, makes it pulse hard through his body. His senses are alive, and he doesn't know how to deal with that, doesn't know how to cope with the emotions and sensations thrumming through him.

"I haven't even started yet," says Annatar. He punctuates his words by thrusting another finger inside him, working inside him so fervently that he almost can't take the rush of feelings that hit him, writhing in a mix of pleasure and pain as Annatar's fingertips scrape his prostate.

"You call that not getting started?" says Celebrimbor with a breathy laugh. Annatar quiets it with a kiss, joining him with his own laugh, so dark compared to Celebrimbor's own.

"I'm of a mind to flip you over and take you like that," says Annatar. "But I want to see your face while we do this. I want to see every expression on that Fëanorian face of yours."

"Of course," he says, breathless from emotion. "Of course. Take me however you want."

"I will," says Annatar with a growl. "I will."

Celebrimbor reaches for another kiss, his skin slick with sweat against Annatar's, their chests rubbing against each other as Celebrimbor's cock throbs and he aches for every touch he can get; what they have isn't enough. It can never be enough. He wants more than his fingers can hold, more than one Elf can handle, and Annatar knows it, giving him what he knows Celebrimbor can take without crushing him. Sometimes Celebrimbor wishes Annatar did not have such restraint.

Annatar removes his fingers and replaces them with the tip of his cock, having undone his breeches enough to release his length from its trapping. Celebrimbor leans his head up to see as best he can the way that it looks against the expensive embroidery of Annatar's clothing, and the slender, attractive penis he glimpses before his neck muscles protest too much only drives his need higher.

The Maia pushes in, gripping Celebrimbor's hips to keep himself steady. They've done this many times before, and Celebrimbor knows what to expect. He isn't disappointed when the loose hold on his hips gets tighter and tighter as Annatar pushes himself into Celebrimbor, who spreads his legs slightly farther and farther apart until he can't anymore, his body and mind together in their need of the man who is now inside him.

Annatar is all the way in now, and he leans forward, pressing a series of kisses along Celebrimbor's jawline. "Patience," he says softly. "I'm here."

Celebrimbor knows this. He can feel it in the tight, invading presence of Annatar's cock, which has roughly pushed its way into him in a mix of pleasure and pain. The hands and mouth on him are intoxicating, driving his mind to the brink of ecstasy, and Annatar hasn't even moved yet. He wraps his legs around Annatar's waist, wanting to beg but unable to let himself. Annatar waits a few long, torturous seconds before he finally begins to move, and Celebrimbor throws back his head from the pain of it. Then, when he is about to open his mouth and ask for it, Annatar begins to move.

They fall into a steady rhythm quickly, and at first it is splendid, Annatar's hot length inside him, stretching him. But Annatar never goes quite as fast as Celebrimbor would like. He pushes the limits of both their endurance with how long he keeps it up, only increasing his pace when Celebrimbor's breathy whines and low moans have increased to an almost shameful degree. The sheets underneath them are damp with their combined sweat, and Celebrimbor's muscles tremble from the exertion. His lips are swollen red from Annatar's kisses, and every movement makes the coiled lust settled below his stomach flare with excitement.

When Celebrimbor begins to think he is done for, that Annatar must change the pace or he'll die, he finally speeds up. From then on it is simple. Annatar laughs as he pounds away at Celebrimbor, a breathless, loud laugh that contains all his arousal as he continues the punishing pace. Celebrimbor's fingers are curled into the mattress so tightly that his hands ache. His cock, untouched since Annatar entered him, is leaving a mess on his stomach. Annatar pays it no heed, and Celebrimbor writhes with the knowledge that he doesn't plan to.

He doesn't need to; Celebrimbor's orgasm is coming regardless, all the heat in his body building down in that place, and he manages to string together enough words to warn Annatar, who finally takes a hand off Celebrimbor's hips and helps him to his finish by kindly brushing his nails across Celebrimbor's balls.

That's all it takes for Celebrimbor to come, and he does so, shouting hoarsely as his eyes glaze over. Annatar stops thrusting as Celebrimbor's seed covers both of them, and his grip on Celebrimbor's hips turns painful, his throbbing cock hot and thick inside him. As Celebrimbor returns from the race of emotions and sensations that took him, he can feel that length inside him, its hardness quickly becoming oversensitive. It'll be painful soon if Annatar doesn't come.

Annatar holds himself there for a long moment, his thoughts a mystery. Celebrimbor's orgasm was still so recent that he feels everything acutely, from the grain of the sheets to the the mess he's made on himself. He's still panting, trying to catch his breath. Annatar leans down and kisses him one last time, closing his eyes when confronted with Celebrimbor's gaze. "You are too much," says Annatar. "You make me want more than I can have."

Celebrimbor does not know what he means by this, but in a moment it doesn't matter. He lets out a loud cry as Annatar thrusts in one hard last time, finishing inside him with a soft grunt. Celebrimbor can feel Annatar's come inside him, and he winces slightly; he may love Annatar, but it is not a very pleasant feeling. Still, he enjoys the sight of Annatar's seed dripping out of him almost as much as Annatar does.

Annatar pulls out, and just like that, he's gone from the room. Celebrimbor looks around in confusion, drawing himself up on his elbows to search for him. A moment later, Annatar returns. His hair is slightly tangled around his face, which is flushed. If that's what Annatar looks like, Celebrimbor's own dark hair must be a complete mess, his cheeks stained with exertion. He can't bring himself to care.

Annatar has returned with a cloth to wipe them both off with, and with a small basin of warm water. Celebrimbor relaxes into the blankets, pulling his fingers from the sheets with a soft laugh as he does so. His limbs feel like he's been on a horse chase for hours. Always a sign they've had a good time.

"Arguments always end in good sex," he says casually.

"Not always," says Annatar. "But often."

"Often enough."

Annatar wipes the product of their lovemaking off both of them, and then prods Celebrimbor until he gets off the bed so he can replace the filthy sheets. Celebrimbor watches him change the bed with an amused smile, his wobbly legs held in place by a firm grip on the headboard. The Maia is so particular. When he has confirmation that the sheets are new and clean, he sinks into them gratefully. They feel clean and wonderful on his sweaty skin.

"Do you think I could do that with Hafalin?" says Annatar.

That darkens Celebrimbor's mood, but only a little. "You could try, but I doubt you'd have as much of a good time."

"The answer is no," says Annatar. "I couldn't do it with him. You are one of a kind."

Celebrimbor doesn't understand Annatar's tone. The blanket and sheets over him are quickly inducing him to slumber, and he wants nothing more than to forget the events of the early evening and remember only the way it ended. He smiles at Annatar, motioning him towards the bed to join him. Annatar rids himself of his breeches and joins Celebrimbor. He is cold, but that doesn't matter. Celebrimbor's heat will warm him.

They spend the next few moments adjusting themselves until they are in the best positions for rest. Celebrimbor yawns the whole time. He's never long for the waking world after a round of good sex. Neither of them say anything. Celebrimbor likes the comfortable silence. It's preferable to a tense argument, either way. He settles into the bed, the passion and anger of the common room forgotten. Annatar lays facing him; Celebrimbor can see him smiling.

Annatar's fingers stroke his hair as his vision grows dark with sleep. "There's no one out there like you, Celebrimbor. No matter what comes, remember that." Celebrimbor hears nothing more until the morning.


End file.
